THE RETURN TO MUTTON 



THE RETURN TO MUTTON 

By 

James N. Rosenberg 




NEW YORK 

MITCHELL KENNERLEY 

1916 



COPYRIGHT I916 BY 
MITCHELL KENNERLEY 






M 28 I9lb 

PRINTED IN AMERICA 
0)CI.D 49950 



TO THAT MOST DISCRIMINATING OF PUBLISHERS. 
MITCHELL KENNERLEY 



ACT I 



THE RETURN TO MUTTON 



ACT I 

Scene : — A living room. It is a wet November eve- 
ning. John and Jane have just finished dinner. This 
is the room which they have inhabited for the eight years 
of their married life. It is a place which has grown 
with them. It was not arranged at one fell swoop. 
It is no choice product of the skilled decorator's hand, 

— a bandy-legged Chippendale turns shudderingly 
from its neighbor, a jovial, fat and plebeian mission 
chair. And yet, the room, over-crowded with an ill- 
assorted medley of trash, has associations and atmos- 
phere. It has been acquavnted with passion, ecstasy, 
anguish; and thence those discordant descending scales, 

— annoyance, irritation, contempt. Now, alas, it has 
settled down. One fears it i^ not a stranger to that 
bitterest of tragedies, — boredom. 

The pictures are a large photogravure of Corot's 
" Ville D'Avray " a Childe Hassam, a colored print of 
Rossetti's " Lillith," a mezzotint of Lord Mansfield, and, 

— almost dominating the room, — a very large post- 
impressionist canvas, — a brilliant piece of color. 

As for the arrangement of the room, there is a 
door at the bach, standing open. Beyond, one sees a 
corridor and stairway. At the right is a fireplace. A 
fire is burning, but listlessly. Between the fireplace and 
the door at the back is a window looking out upon the 
street. The shade is part wuy up. One gets a glimpse 



4 THE RETURN TO MUTTON [act i 

of wet pavements outdoors. In front of the fireplace 
is a large, well-worn couch. Back of the couch is a 
table strewn with novels, magazines and newspapers. 
There are bookcases against the walls in which stand a 
miscellany of books, including a fair-sized library of 
law books. There is a door to the left. 

John sits on a foot-stool before tlie fire. He is a 
smallish man in the middle thirties. He is rather bald; 
he wears horn-rimmed spectacles which give him an owl- 
ish look. His face is cheerful, agreeable, somezohat 
whimsical. He looks tired, and he is tired. He has 
been presiding in court all day, conducting the trial of a 
difficult case. He wears an old smoking jacket, gay in 
pattern, — a Joseph^s coat of many colors, — soiled, 
worn and extraordinarily unbecoming. Old flowered 
carpet slippers stand on the hearth. John is content- 
edly toasting his feet. He smokes an old pipe. He is 
digesting his dinner. Perhaps he is planning tomor- 
row's judicial duties. Perhaps he is reflecting on other 
matters, but only sketchily, for his feet appear to en- 
gross most of his attention. 

Jane sits at the other side of the room at a desk, her 
back to John, her profile to the audience. She is charm- 
ingly gowned in a last year's evening goxsm {which is 
still good enough for evenings at home). She is exam- 
ining photographs, letters, papers of vurious sorts, tear- 
ing them into small bits, and throwing them into a waste 
basket. 

They seem unconscious of each other's presence. 
Thus almost every night for eight years he has silently 
smoked his after dinner pipe. But let it not be sup- 
posed that they are really unconscious of each other. 
As for John, he not only knows she is there and knows 



ACT i] THE RETURN TO MUTTON 5 

what she is dokig, hut sees into the depths of her mind. 
Still, he does not talk. Silence like this, — a wholly nor- 
mal relationship between a man and his wife, — is to her, 
as to so many women, an incomprehensible language. 
Once or twice he steals a look at her. All this dumb 
show occupies enough minutes to indicate that the cur- 
tain has not risen on the begi/nning of their lives. The 
current has been flowing for a good many years and it is 
sluggish. Once or twice she, too, steals a glance at him, 
but tlwir eyes do not meet. By degrees it appears that 
perhaps the fire smouldering on the hearth is not the 
only flame in the room. And now John^s absorption 
in his feet increases. He takes off his socks. Skil- 
fully, as if of long practice, he erects a pyramid of 
tongs, poker and shovel; he hangs his socks upon the 
apex. Bang. The pyramid collapses with a crash. 

JANE {startled from her absorption) 

John! 
JOHN {without looking at her) 

Hullo ! 

JANE 

What was that? 
JOHN (beginning to rebuild the pyramid) 
Socks. 

JANE 

Fascinating subject. 

JOHN 

You asked a question ; I answered. Drying socks is 
a tiresome business, but it's a perfectly moral occu- 
pation. 

JANE 

But aren't tiresome things wicked.'' 



6 THE RETURN TO MUTTON [act i 

JOHN 

Idols have feet ; ergo, socks ; feet of clay ; clay is 
moist; (all this time his back is turned to her; he is 
examining the socks) ergo, damp socks. Ha! (He 
lifts one sock into the air) Dry as a bone. (He 
finds a hole in the sock; puts his finger through it) 
Ha! Ha! behold! 

JANE 

You didn't answer what I was saying at dinner. 

JOHN 

Twice one are two, — never one ; we think so for a 
little while; but we find out. 

JANE 

So you won't try to — 

JOHN 

Soar like the lark ? I'm glad to creep ; man is a 
mole. (He puts on his dry sock) 

JANE 

And the things I care for — ? 

JOHN 

Yesterday's or tomorrow's.'' Freud, Nietzsche; eu- 
genics; suffrage; prostitution; Strindberg; sanita- 
tion ; Dalcroze ; vers libre ; amour libre ; the new thea- 
tre ; the old Nick ; vegetarianism ; Christian Science ; 
post-impressions (he boxes to the picture on the 
wall) How dull they make my law suits. (He ri^es 
and hops toioard her on his stockinged foot and 
speaks •whimsically) Life's greatest litigation ; ro- 
mance against roast-beef; souls against socks; mys- 
tery against mutton. How I could try that case 
for the plaintiff. " Gather ye rosebuds while ye 
may." Three Herrick four fifty-six. And Shelley 
in his learned commentary declares, second edition, 



ACT i] THE RETURN TO MUTTON 7 

page ten, " I arise from dreams of thee, and a spirit 
in my feet." (He wiggles his bare toes) Youth, 
the plaintiff, radiant, dazzling, palpitating! I used 
to palpitate. 

JANE 

Did you ever? 

JOHN 

One forgets. And the defendant — 

JANE 

Shall I describe him? 

JOHN 

How well I fill the part ! Useful but uninspiring, 
dependable but dyspeptic, prosperous but prosaic. 
It's the tragedy of life. The defendant always wins. 

JANE 

Always ? 

JOHN 

There is no exception. The rosebud fades ; the cat- 
erpillar breakfasts on the petals. The end is always 
the same. The bad prevails. 

JANE 

Badness? 

JOHN 

Stupidity, age, ugliness, baldness, a paunch, rheu- 
matism, boredom ; — all the bad things. Only the 
young die good. (He sniffs) My sock! It's burn- 
ing. (He hops rapidly to the fire to rescue it, hivt in 
doing so stubs his toe) Ouch! (And sitting cross- 
legged on the floor he stops to nurse it) My toe; I 
believe I broke it. 

JANE (without offering to rise) 

Phew, what a smell ! (He rescues the sock) 

JOHN (reproachfully) 



8 THE RETURN TO MUTTON [act i 

The burning brand ! And where were you while I 

lay wounded? 
JANE (calmly) 

You'll get over it. You get over everything. 
JOHN {philosophically — meantime putting on his socks 

and slippers) One bows to life's decrees. 

JANE 

And that's your only answer to all I said? 

JOHN 

It's not my answer. 

JANE 

Whose then? 

JOHN 

Life's. 

JANE 

I won't accept it. 

JOHN 

Boiled mutton, Jane. Suppose you'd eaten nothing 
else for eight years. {He calculates rapidly on his 
fingers) Good God! Ten thousand meals. Be- 
hold! {He goes toxvard her, the slippers flopping 
with each step) The boiled mutton. {He bows, in- 
dicating himself) One learns the other's tricks — 
the whole bagful; the parlor tricks, the dining room 
tricks — 

JANE 

Company tricks, Judge tricks, even the bed room — 
JOHN {raising his hand deprecatimgly) 

Ssh ! Jane. ... In fifteen minutes I'm due at the 
asylum meeting. What a bully little talk we've had. 
But if I run on like this, I'll miss my forty winks, and 
I've been holding court all day. {He goes to the 
couch, lies down, pulls a cover over himself, adjusts 



ACT i] THE RETURN TO MUTTON 9 

the pUlorvs and settles down with a sigh of vast con- 
tentment) 

JANE 

As for me, I refuse to be mutton. 

JOHN 

If only one could. Still, what delicious mutton you 
are, — done to a turn ; crisp, wonderfully seasoned, 
so many adorable little capers, and so attractively 
served up. Anyone else would swear you are 
spring lamb. 

JANE 

But mutton for you. 

JOHN 

That's the devil of it. One little kiss? (She does 
not move . . . resignedly) Very well. . . . It's all 
the same. 

JANE 

I'm afraid so. 
JOHN {lifting himself on his elbows and exclaiming as if 
it were the supreme thing in life) By Jove ! What 
do you think? The new pills. Work like a charm! 
Fried onions for lunch. Fit as a fiddle. 

JANE 

How I envy you. 

JOHN 

Envy me? 

JANE 

You, at least, have a real interest in life. 

JOHN 

When all else fails, there is always the stomach. 
Wake me. Just ten minutes. {He lies down again. 
Instantly . almost, it appears, he falls asleep. He 
breathes deeply and snores with loud and peaceful 



10 THE RETURN TO MUTTON [act i 

regularity. The telephone rings. She takes up the 
receiver) 

JANE {at the telephone) 

Hello. You? (A long pause) . . . Almost? . . . 
I — I think so. Not this evening. . . . No — to- 
morrow. . . . Oh, I suppose I can't slam the door in 
your face. 
[Presently John awakes. 

JOHN (sleepily and with a mighty yawn) 
Didn't I hear the 'phone? 

JANE 

Augustin. 

JOHN 

Coming over? 

JANE 

Yes. 

JOHN 

Good! . . . Dear little Augustin. (A deep bow to 
the post-impressionist picture) 

JANE 

Yet you used to like him. 

JOHN 

Doesn't wear — Mush — Mush. 

JANE 

The critics? 

JOHN 

I'm saying nothing against the picture, my dear. 
It's the man I'm talking about. Come up while I 
dress? (He pauses for a reply, hut she does not an- 
swer. He goes out left, leaving the smoking jacket 
and slippers on the couch. Jane stands before the 
fire refiecti/ng; she sighs; then, with the habit of her 
sex at such moments, re-arranges her hair a little. 



ACT i] THE RETURN TO MUTTON 11 

puts out some of the lights, and lays a fresh log on 
the fire. John returns, carrying his other clotJies) 
Thought I'd dress in here. Haven't quite finished 
our bully little talk. {He throrcs his clothes on a 
chair behind the library table. He begins to dress; 
during his next speech he is dressing himself; a good 
deal of the time he is hidden behind the table) It's 
no go, Jane. . . . I'm just a good old beast in har- 
ness. . . . Can't fly. . . . There goes a shoe lace. 
. . . I've tried. . . . You may not think so. . . I 
have, just the same. . . . No one in the world like 
you. . . . Too bad you're so fond of the upper air. 
(His dressing proceeds; he has changed his trousers 
and puts on a fresh collar and a black tie) Did 
you get my check ? Added an extra hundred ; gaso- 
lene's so high. (He takes papers and bills from 
the discarded trousers pockets) Gracious, Jennie. 
Nearly forgot. (He offers her an envelope) 
Guess. 

JANE 

You know I hate guessing. 

JOHN (impressively) 

It's something I got at Cobb's. (But Jane is unre- 
lenting) You won't guess? Perhaps you'll look at 
it. It's the two cent Hawaiian Missionary. 

JANE (breathless — the words slipping out before she 
knows it) The two! 

JOHN 

Look and see. (He takes the stamp from the enve- 
lope, picks up a magnifying glass from the table and 
brings them both to her) 
JANE (as if to humor him, but really dying to see it) 
I suppose you won't be satisfied till I look at it (and 



12 THE RETURN TO MUTTON [act i 

slie eagerly examines it through the magnifying glass, 
turning it over and over) 
JOHN (proudly) 
Beauty, isn't it? 

JANE 

But what a dreadful extravagance. 

JOHN 

Don't forget how that set's advancing. It's a first- 
class investment. 

JANE 

And so, of course, it was really an economy to buy it. 

JOHN 

Well, wasn't it? Besides, it's your set. 

JANE 

What's that got to do with it? 

JOHN 

Well, you see, if we ever should fall out, you know 
(she steals a quick look at him) — Oh, well, that 
little set might come in handy for you. (He meets 
her eyes and changes the subject instantly) And 
now for the deaf, the dumb and the blind. (And "with 
a -final lurch here and a jerk there, he has settled him- 
self into his clothes) 

[Jane has the stamp in the palm of her hand; she 
speaks as if to it, with quiet irony. 

JANE 

The deaf, the dumb and the blind. 

[John has gathered his discarded clothes and reached 

the door; he turns suddenly. 

JOHN 

I, their guardian ; I, blind as a bat, deaf as a door- 
knob, dumb as a dish-cloth. Yet, there are moments 
when the veil seems lifted. 



ACT i] THE RETURN TO MUTTON 13 

JANE 

Are there? 

JOHN 

Shall I prove it to you? 

JANE 

Do. 

JOHN 

Will telling you what Master Augnstin and you are 
debating prove it? {He has struck home. Her 
hands drop to her sides; the stamp flutters to the 
floor. Having delivered this proof that he is not, 
perhaps, so blind, after all, he looks fixedly into her 
eyes for an instant) You dropped the missionary. 
{He quietly picks up the stamp, lays it on the table 
and goes to the door left) I'll be back in a minute. 
{Jane, silent, stares after him. In a moment he re- 
turns xcith hat, overcoat, rubbers and umibrella. 
Jane still standi where he left her) 
Rather decent of me to get out, so you might ar- 
range your thoughts? Sometimes even a wife must 
be ready. And a husband must always be prepared. 

JANE 

For how long have you had them ready, your clever 
little phrases? 

JOHN 

For months. {He puts on his rubbers) 

JANE 

Still, you must be quite upset. Those are your old 
rubbers. 

JOHN 

So they are . . . that's dreadful. 

JANE 

And you've let it go right on? 



14 THE RETURN TO MUTTON [act i 

JOHN 

It's like typhoid. The doctor does little with these 
fevers. 

JANE 

Are there no medicines for them.'' 

JOHN 

None that amount to anything. 

JANE 

Poor, helplessly clever John. You aren't able to 
comprehend that some collector might think me an 
even rarer specimen than this. (Pomting to the 
stamp) Otherwise you'd have reached out a hand 
for me. Unless you don't care. 

JOHN 

Don't talk nonsense. (Tenderly) Is there another 
woman in all the world who would have known that 
British Guinea was a counterfeit.? 

JANE 

Then why haven't you reached out a hand.'' 
JOHN (indignantly) 
Haven't I? 

JANE 

I've not observed it. 

JOHN 

Haven't I thrown you and Gussie together on every 
possible occasion? (Jane hursts out laughing) Go 
on, laugh. Don't you see it's the case of the mut- 
ton.? 

JANE 

Wonderful John. Now I see. What a schemer you 
are. 
JOHN (benignly, not doubting that his scheming has 
been a complete success) For a change anyone 



ACT i] THE RETURN TO MUTTON 15 

might enjoy a taste of mush. Mush, I say. But 
for a steady diet there is nothing like mutton. So 
I reasoned, if I fed you up on mush, you'd get sick 
of mush. Mush; it turns the stomach. 

JANE 

Are you sure it does.'' 
JOHN (patting her benevolently on the head) 
Why, of course, my adorable child. 

JANE 

How can you explain, then, why it is, that the more I 
get of mush, the more I Avant of it.^* Jack, Jack, if 
only you'd kept some of it in your make-up. 
JOHN {soothingly) 
We are as we are. 

JANE 

Heavens ! And now you're going to say " To thine 
own self be true." 

JOHN 

Well? 

JANE 

Well.'' And what of the woman? And which one of 

your several selves? The one that once published a 

sonnet sequence? 
JOHN (with a wry face) 

Dead and gone — and thank God. 
JANE (quoting) 

" Dawn's bloom across the night, O sacred flame, 
Love, inextinguishably bright, you came." 
JOHN (anguished) 

Stop. I implore you. 

JANE 

That little book; it was the first present you gave 



16 THE RETURN TO MUTTON [act i 

me. And you killed the man who wrote it — and 
buried him deep in the ground. 
JOHN {very much upset) 

Then don't dig up the remains. 

JANE 

And what has that self of yours done to this self of 
mine? What have you known of my growing pains? 
You've clothed me, fed me, housed me. You've had 
no mistresses. I wish you had. 
JOHN {aghast) 
What? 

JANE 

You might have really cared for lamb once in a 
while. But the judge has murdered the man. And 
it was the man I married. So you needn't have been 
so considerate. You needn't have given me time to 
get ready. I am ready. 
JOHN {composedly) 

You can't frighten me. He's far too much of an 
ass. And now, really, I must run along. 

JANE 

Bottom made Titania happy. {Tlie hell rings; there 
is a pause) " To thine own — " 

JOHN 

It's the very corner-stone. 

JANE 

I suppose I'm entitled to my little corner-stone? 

JOHN 

Absolutely. 

JANE 

I intend to have it. 
JOHN {at the door-way, just leaving, hut politely inter- 



ACT i] THE RETURN TO MUTTON 17 

ested) Good! And just how do you intend to 
carry out this admirable theory? 

JANE 

Haven't I made that clear? 
JOHN (unruffled) 

Scarcely. 
JANE {very quietly) 

I propose to carry it out by going away with Au- 

gustin. 
JOHN {amused at the idea) 

It's always an interesting theory — though, of 

course, not novel. 

JANE 

And you're sure it's only a theory? 
JOHN {his hand on the door-knob) 

How can it possibly be anything else? My regards 

to Augustin. 
JANE {confronting him and looking him squarely in the 

eyes) It's unthinkable folly, isn't it? 
JOHN {stroking her cheek) 

And we have sense, we have. 

JANE 

Have we? 

JOHN 

Haven't we? 
JANE {quietly removing his hand) 

I'm afraid not. It's going to happen. 
[There is a long, silent moment. John peers into 
her face; slowly his complacent look changes to one 
of doubt. They are standing near the hearth. 
Steps are heard on the stair-case. Jane crosses the 
room to the head of the stairs. John remains half- 
hidden at the fireplace. And now Augustin enters. 



18 THE RETURN TO MUTTON [act i 

He is dripping wet. His soft, broad-brimmed hat 
drops puddles, his shoes are soaking. Augustin is a 
tall and slender youth, aged about seven and twenty; 
his face is wan; there are shadows under his eyes; his 
hair is curly and needs the barber's shears; his attire 
is intended to be consciously unusual, but he has 
achieved little more than the low collar, the flowing 
Windsor tie, the baggy paint-soiled trousers of the 
young artist. In Bohemia he is the ne plus ultra of 
convention. On the stage — and he is an inveterate 
theatre-goer — he would be a perfect type. Yet, 
taken altogether, if Augustm is mush, there is, it 
cannot be gainsaid, something about him that makes 
mush not altogether unpalatable for one weary of 
mutton. At the door-way, he pauses, a poseur, per- 
haps, — does not adolescence always strike attitudes? 
■ — but a poetic and alluring figure of youth just the 
same, casts his wet hat with a sweeping gesture from 
him to fall where it may, passes his hand over his wet 
brow, brushes a few stray dripping strands from his 
eyes, and, not seeing John, stretches his arms out 
and clasps Jane's two hands, bends over her and 
covers her arms with kisses. 

AUGUSTIN 

Rose of the world ! (John, awake at last to the real- 
ity of the impossible thing, has seized the poker, and 
moves grimly toward tJiem. Augustin ttirns to John, 
For a moment he is startled; but he collects himself 
instantly and from his greater height frowns down 
on John, as upon an intruder. But John is not im- 
pressed. John advances grimly, clenching the poker) 

JOHN 

Once in a while a rat gets into my house. This 



ACT i] THE RETURN TO MUTTON 19 

poker has finished more than one bit of vermin. (He 
raises the weapon. It is a formidable one and John 
means business. But Angus tin, arms majestically 
folded, stands unflinching. Jane, knowing John, 
looks on unmoved, the ghost of a smile on her lips) 

AUGUSTIN 

Go on. Go on. Why pause, in this, life's crucial 
moment.'' Smite if you dare. Kill, if you can. 
Will it bring back what you have lost? 
[«/o/m stares menacingly into Angus tin's face. A 
curious thing happens. The poker develops a will 
of its own. It declines to descend. Why will not 
this fellow fight? or at least run away? The poker's 
a dangerous weapon. One might hit too hard. A 
cracked skull? An indictment? The judicial hab- 
its of a decade stay his arm. It relaxes; gradually 
he lowers the poker. He drops it. It clatters upon 
the floor. 

JOHN 

I'm afraid he's right, Jane. I may as well go to my 
meeting. 

JANE 

By no means, John. We've started. But we have 
not finished. 

JOHN 

My dear child, it's mutton or mush. There's noth- 
ing left but for the jury to retire. I shall return in 
an hour to take the verdict. 

JANE 

But, if I have some things to say to you.'' 
JOHN {resignedly) 

Very well. Come, Gussie, we'll talk the thing to tat- 
ters. Let's sit down and be uncomfortable. Have 



20 THE RETURN TO MUTTON [act i 

a cigar? {He lights one himself) The dear old tri- 
angle, sometimes obtuse, often acute, but never right. 
{He drops into the arm chair near the fire) But 
look at Gussie. The poor thing's soaking. First 
we must take care of him. A hot toddy, Gussie .-^ 

JANE 

Poor boy, you are wet. 

[^ Angus tin knows very well he is wet. He would like 
nothing better than a hot toddy. But to Augustin 
this dripping entrance was irresistible. 
AUGUSTIN {spurning the suggestion of hot toddy and 
addressing Jane) Rose of the world, I came to you, 
my heart was singing, my eyes were with the stars. 
Was it raining? 

JOHN 

Was it raining? Rose of the world, he is superb. 
JANE {from the hearth) 

Come here, please, Augustin. 
AUGUSTIN {obedient, though wondering what the devil 

she is up to) Rose of the world. 

JANE 

Your coat, please. Why, it's drenched. {And she 
makes him take it off) Now, this, please. {And she 
holds the smoking jacket outspread) 

JOHN 

My smoking jacket? 

JANE 

Put it on. {And she forces the arms of the mutely 
and vainly protesting Augustin into the ridiculous 
garment which is absurdly tight and short in the 
sleeves) 

JOHN 

See here, Jane. Why don't we take off his shoes? 



ACT i] THE RETURN TO MUTTON 21 

Gussie's feet are sopping. November weather; the 
grippe ; regular epidemic. 
JANE (^coolly) 

It's a splendid idea. Augustin, won't you please sit 
on the footstool? {Gently hut -firmly she pushes Au- 
gustin to the footstool and sets to work to unlace his 
boots) 

AUGUSTIN 

I beg you, dearest one — 
JANE (with a look at John) 

Love's service. Don't stop me, Augustin. 
JOHN (looking on) 

Charming, charming. But do we progress,'' 
JANE (hating now unlaced the boots) 

Lift up your foot. 

JOHN 

Up, Gussie. 

[Augustin with a hopeless gesture lifts his foot. She 
pulls off a boot. It makes a wet scrunch as it comes 
off. 
AUGUSTIN (involuntarily) 
O! 0! 

JOHN 

His pet corn. Do be careful, Jane. 

JANE 

The other one, please. (Off comes the other. She 
places his feet on the fender and puts the carpet slip- 
pers on them) There. 

JOHN 

Ich dien. Love's service. Sacred ceremony. 
AUGUSTIN (picking up John^s ridicule and, with a thrill- 
ing voice, transmuting it into a lyric) Love's serv- 
ice. Rose of the world — (he takes her hands) 



22 THE RETURN TO MUTTON [act i 

Dearest one. {He presses them to his lips, sniffs in- 

voluntarily, and draws away) 

[This is John's chance and he takes it. 

JOHN 

Love's service. His boots, Jane. His head was in 
the stars. But where were Augustin's dear little 
feet .'' ( With which exceedingly vulgar remark John 
bursts into loud laughter. To complete the victory 
he laughs loudly and a little longer than is needful. 
To his surprise he finds that his laughter has rather 
a hollow sound. It dies away lamely) 
JANE {looking at him pityingly) 

A few moments ago I asked you to stay, John. I 
told you we had only started. Now — 

JOHN 

But now I don't want to go. 

JANE 

You needn't. We're going. If you are sure, Au- 
gustin? 
AUGUSTiN, {springing to his feet) 
You mean it.'' 

JANE 

If you want me. 

AUGUSTIN 

Need you ask.'* 

JANE 

One has to be awfully certain. 
AUGUSTIN {a little frightened at his daring and giving 
Iter a chance to hack out) He is a proud master of 
laM's and men. I am an humble servant of art. I 
am poor — he is mighty. He is an emperor. I am 
a slave. 



ACT i] THE RETURN TO MUTTON 23 

JOHN {reassuringly) 

Don't be so scared, Gussie. She doesn't really mean 
it, you know. 

AUGUSTiN {stung hy John's penetration and swept away 
for the moment by his real belief in his own passion) 
But if utter devotion, if the adoration of the slave, 
if the desire of the moth for the star, the hunger of 
the bud for the glory of spring suffice to make you 
sure, come. {And, as if it were a solemn rite, 
he clasps Jane to his breast, adoringly, protect- 
ingly, masterfully. It is more than John can 
stand) 

JOHN {in a furious treble, — his voice, as it is apt 
to do in very tense moments, cracking) Take your 
hands off my wife. Get out of my house. 

AUGUSTiN {rising splendidly to the occasion, Jane in his 
arms) The Judge enjoins us. Do you think this 
your grimy court room.'* No, this is the wide field 
of life. The law.'' Man-made dogma; you who fat- 
ten on it, what do you know of God's decrees ? Was 
she once yours.'' Did you minister to her dreams, 
feed her aspirations? Now she is mine, mine by the 
divine law which has made me hers. 
l^John is heartily ashamed of his outburst, and now, 
dead in earnest, he makes his last stand. 

JOHN 

And so, Jane, the argument of eight years is noth- 
ing.? 

JANE 

I am not old enough to live in the past. 

JOHN 

Have we quarreled.'' 



M THE RETURN TO MUTTON [act i 

JANE 

At first. It was then I was happj. We struck 
sparks. 

JOHN 

Aren't we good pals.'* Haven't we the same tastes.'' 

JANE 

We both drink orange juice at breakfast, I admit. 

JOHN 

Don't we loathe the same people.'' The Vanderbocks, 
the Griswolds.'' Hey, Jennie? 
AUGUSTIN (contemptuously) 

And you both enjoy the movies, I believe. What 
ties ! 

JOHN 

Yes, Augustin. And so do we both like the windows 
wide open at night — no matter how freezing it is. 
Do you.'' And we love Beethoven, beefsteak and the 
Bab-Ballads, and abominate the opera and dote on 
our Sunday afternoon foursomes. Why, we even 
like your pictures, both of us. I'm sure you're with 
us there. And then there are the stamps. You're 
not throwing all that overboard, Jane.? 
JANE (moved) 

They do count — those things. But, Jack, those are 
the trifles. Don't you see it's best for us both to say 
good-bye? Don't you see I'm no more to you than 
you to me? Don't you see that in all the big things, 
the real things, you have given me nothing but ashes 
when I begged, simply begged, for only a crust? 

JOHN 

But don't you see it's all these little things that make 
up that big thing called life? Sympathy, com- 
munion and all that? Don't you see that your 



ACT i] THE RETURN TO MUTTON 25 

graceful little slippers won't fit him any better 
than they do me? It can't be done. Don't you see 
that? 

AUGUSTIN 

Thank God I'm blind. 

JOHN 

But you, Jane? 
JANE (doubtfullif) 

Perhaps you're right. But if you arc, I want to be 
blind for the rest of my life. 

JOHN 

But your eyes are open, old girl. You can't shut 

them ; you can't. 
AUGUSTIN (bending over her head) 

If only I had more to offer you, 
JOHN {hlithely — the victory in his grasp) 

One docs wonder about the rent. 
JANE (landing upon terra firma xvith a terrific impact) 

The rent? 
JOHN (irrevocably in the mire) 

The landlord and the butcher. They always ob- 
trude. 

JANE 

Now, I see. . . . You've made it all so clear. 

AUGUSTIN 

On the one hand (with a sweep of his arm he takes in 

the room) you have all this; on the other, — dear, 

dear heart, — you have only mc. 
JANE (in a tone that leaves no doubt) 

I've made my choice. 
JOHN (knowing it's all over, but a. game loser) 

It's all up with you, Gussie. You've won. 



26 THE RETURN TO MUTTON [act i 

AUGUSTIN 

Grow fat while we starve, and who shall be the richer? 
JOHN (sinking into a chair) 

That's the problem — and well put. 

AUGUSTIN 

We shall beg on street corners, and you may drop a 
penny in my hat. 

JOHN 

Or commit you for vagrancy. 

AUGUSTIN {hrilliantly ironic) 

The victory is yours — your creed of life — But 
we are magnanimous. We do not grudge you it. 

JANE {bending over Jolinh chair and kissing him lightly 
on the hold spot on the top of his head) I've always 
been fond of you. (She takes Atigustin^s arm and 
leads him to the door at the back. The slippers flop 
as he follows her. He casts a hopeless look at his 
coat and shoes. But he knows that they are lost for- 
ever) 

JOHN 

Better take a rain-coat, Jane. 
[They have reached the stairway. 
Keep an eye open for that five cent Hawaiian. . . . 
[He rises and looks after them. Jane has already 
disappeared down the stairs. There remains to be 
seen of the pair only Angus ti/n's head and hack. 
Look here. My smoking jacket. 
JANE (hysterically) 

The smoking jacket. The carpet slippers. We'll 
take them for keepsakes. (They go down the stairs. 
From below, unseen, Jane calls) Your pills, John. 
Isn't it time for them.^ (A door slams) 



ACT i] THE RETURN TO MUTTON 27 

JOHN (going to the open door) 

Jane, Jane. (But no answer comes) Poor Jane. 
(He looks down the stairs, then he goes to the win- 
dow, raises the shade, opens the window; the rain 
beats in upon him) She'll get drenched. (He leans 
out, calling) Hey, you two! (Louder) Jane! 
(At the top of his voice) Jane! Jane! Don't do 
this. Jane! Jane! (He closes the window with a 
bang) She's done it. Poor old girl. . . . What a 
pity. . . . It'll be lonely. Still life goes right on. 
What a bungler I've been. . . . Brace up. No 
impure passion of remorse. (The clock strikes ten. 
He watches it, takes a little bottle from his waistcoat 
pocket, extracts two pills, makes a great business of 
swallowing them, takes a gulp of water from the glass 
on the table) Bitter, bitter. (He opens the win- 
dow once more. The rain beats in upon him) 



ACT II 



ACT II 

Scene: Ten months later. It is about four o'clock 
of a September afternoon. The domicile of Jane and 
Augustin. They occupy a chamber on the top story 
of a Venetian palace. It is a large, splendid and inde- 
scribably shabby room. But, magnificent as it was in 
the days of the Doges, the squalor to which it has fallen 
awakens a genuine feeling of pity. 

The cracked walls are spotted with mould. Large 
areas of plaster have fallen away. The handsome pi- 
lasters at the doorways are irreparably damaged; the 
cornices are chipped; the paint has peeled. At the 
back of the room, extending nearly its entire width, 
are windows. The latticed blinds are down to keep out 
the sun's glare. The room has two entrances, one at 
the left, the other nearly opposite. 

There is an easel in the middle of the room upon 
which stands a nearly finished canvas, — a life-size self- 
portrait of Augustin, — done chiefly in oranges and 
purples, — and really very well painted, — a dozen or so 
of paint rags lie on the floor near the easel. Paint 
brushes, tins of turpentine, palettes, — the tools of the 
trade, — are to be seen. 

This room is their studio, bedroom, dining-room and 
kitchen, and contains their various impedimentia. At 
the left stands a pine table, upon which are an oil stove 
and tin plates; cheap knives and forks are upon the 
table. Beside the oil stove is a cupboard Uttered with 

31 



32 THE RETURN TO MUTTON [act ii 

dislies, pots, pans, bottles, packages, oranges, a jar of 
pickles, etc, — a piece of faded brocade is tacked along 
the top of the cupboard, but is thrown aside. There is 
also a mash-stand, — a soiled roller-towel above. 

Along the opposite wall are a double bed and chest of 
drawers, a pier-glass and a couch strewn with disor- 
dered coverlets; on the couch lies Augustin sprawling at 
full length and nursing a cold. Augustin wears a little 
Vandyke beard. 

There are inany hooks on the wall; and from these 
depend various articles of attire. In a dark corner one 
may, if observant, discern shoes, paint-rags, rolls of 
canvas. One must admit that the occupants of this 
room are not meticulous in the matter of housekeeping. 

Presently someone fumbles at the door left. Augus- 
tin springs eagerly to his feet. Jane enters, leaving 
the door open. Seeing it is she, Augustin drops back 
to the couch, greatly disappointed. 

AUGUSTIN 

It's you. 

JANE 

Whom were you expecting? 

AUGUSTIN 

Witherspoon. 

JANE 

O! 

[^Silence descends on them. A basket hangs on Janets 
arm. This she carries to the table upon which she 
empties its contents, — potatoes, carrots, a loaf of 
bread, several little parcels. At the sight of food 
Augustin cheers up the least bit. He lifts himself 
for a moment on his elbows, glances at the potatoes 



ACT ii] THE RETURN TO MUTTON 3S 

and carrots, hut almost at once drops hack despond- 
ently. Jane puts on an apron, — it is rather soiled, 
— gets a pan and a knife; lifts the lid of a pot that 
is simmering on the stove, stirs the contents, tastes 
the concoction, shakes in a bit of salt, settles herself 
into a rocking chair and busies herself slicing and 
paring the potatoes. This job accomplished, she 
puts them and a dab of butter into the pan and sets it 
on the stove. She cuts a few thick slices of bread. 

AUGUSTIN 

Thinner slices, I implore you, rose of the world. 
[Without anszcering, Jane looks at the pot once 
more. As she lifts the lid the steam arises from it. 
Augustin sniffs. 

AUGUSTIN 

God! Cabbage again? {He lifts himself with a 
groan to a sitting posture) 

JANE 

Your cold must be a little better. The lumbago bad 
as ever.'' 

[But Augustin only shakes his head in despair. 
Cheer up. A cold and lumbago. Poor me, I haven't 
got anything at all. 

AUGUSTIN 

Mock. Mock. 

JANE 

A stiff back requires a stiff lip, Gussie. Never mind, 
it's darkest before the dawn. 

AUGUSTIN 

The dawn. It only shows our misery the clearer. 
Why did I bring you down to this? 

JANE 

Am I complaining? 



34. THE RETURN TO MUTTON [act n 

AUGUSTIN 

My brave, brave girl. (A fit of sneezing seizes 
him) 

JANE 

I told you you ought to wear your muffler. 
[A hahy^s cryvng rends the air. 

AUGUSTIN 

It has been howling for hours. 

JANE 

But think of what we owe that child. For the few 
hours a day I take care of him see what Mrs. Ves- 
puccio does for us. 

AUGUSTIN 

Does for us? Look at this place. Every chord in 
me revolts. 

JANE 

But, Gussie dear, one does have to keep going aw- 
fully hard after you. Just look at the paint rags. 
{Slie gathers them. They are silent again) 

AUGUSTIN 

Have you found out how he discovered our where- 
abouts ? 
JANE {shortly) 

It doesn't interest me. 

AUGUSTIN 

Patterson and Company will give us a thousand 
pounds for those stamps. 
JANE {turning to him with compressed lips) 
You wrote.? 

AUGUSTIN 

Yes, I wrote. I wrote. I wrote. Was it a crime? 

JANE 

You know I won't sell them. 



ACT ii] THE RETURN TO MUTTON 35 

AUGUSTIN 

You admit they are yours. He only sent you what 
belongs to you. Tardily enough, too. 
JANE {icily) 

We've been all over that. 

AUGUSTIN 

Do I want the money for myself? Do I.'' What 
sentiment for him makes you keep them, then.'' An- 
swer me that. 

JANE 

Is that fair? 

AUGUSTIN 

When I think that nothing less than starvation faces 
you — 

JANE 

What? With all this cabbage? 

AUGUSTIN 

O God. Cabbage. I'm out of rose madder. Not 
another tube of vert emeraud. That ends the paint- 
ing. 
JANE {a little impatiently) 

Art must starve, too, for a little while. (Conciliat- 
ingly) Never mind, Gussie, you've painted a lot. 
It won't hurt you to loaf. 

AUGUSTIN 

You're right. Who cares whether I paint or not? 

JANE 

That's silly. With your two canvases on the line ! 

AUGUSTIN 

What does it amount to? Who looks at them? The 
artists — the real ones — they know. I'm no good, 
Jane. The pictures are fourth-rate. I am fourth- 
rate. 



36 THE RETURN TO MUTTON [act n 

JANE 

Third, anyway, Gussie. Come along now ; show me 
what you've been doing. (She takes a step towards 
the canvas) Why, Gussie, you've not touched 
it. . . . 

AUGUSTIN 

It's not worth while. 

JANE 

And you put me out just so you might work alone. 
. . . Lazy boy . . . {his remark about Wither- 
spoon flashes back into her mind . . . reproach- 
fully) You sent me away because of Witherspoon. 
. . . That wasn't quite frank, was it? . . . (Her 
voice grotcs a little sharp) . . . Was it? . . . Was 
it? 

AUGUSTIN 

Yes, I was deceiving you. Yes, I was lying. Yes, I 
was trying to hide from you the fact that he will not 
come where his friend's wife is. Yes, I tried to spare 
you. He said something about buying a picture. 
(Brokenly) He never even came. 
JANE (remorsefully) 

Never mind. He'll be here tomorrow. 
\^Augustin sinks into the couch in black despair. 
Jane resumes attention to the stove. And now 
a man's flgure appears at the open doorway. A 
conspicuous object enough, resplendently clad in 
white flannels, a white cap perched jauntily on his 
head, a rose in his button-hole, he stands never- 
theless unnoticed by Jane and Augustin. It is difji- 
cult to believe that this is John. For the man is 
lean, bronzed, flt and ten years younger than the 
John of ten months ago. But John has had a vaca- 



ACT ii] THE RETURN TO MUTTON 37 

Hon. He has climbed the Andes, bathed in the surf 
at Hawaii, played golf at Sandwich and Prestxdck, 
flirted with the pretty Geisha girls, gazed at the 
Sphina; and crossed the Siberian steppes. With si- 
lent interest he surveys the scene, gaining some idea 
of where their dreams and aspirations have led them. 
Augustin lifts his head. 

AUGUSTIN 

Jane, the tobacco! You didn't forget? 

JANE 

Sorry. No more till we pay up. 

AUGUSTIN 

My God. No tobacco ! . . . O, my God. 
JOHN (briskly) 

Have one of my cigars? (John has exploded his 
bomb. The results are instant. Augustin, the lum- 
bago forgotten, springs to his feet, staring at the 
apparition. Jane, less demonstrative, is, however, 
no less startled. She stands, spoon upraised, as if 
turned into a pillar) May the Philistine enter the 
shrine of art, the temple of romance? . . . So, at 
last, my dear, dear friends, we meet again. And to 
think that but for that piece in the Art News I'd 
have gone on to Cortina. (He draws near Jane) 
Not a word for the lonely wanderer? Don't let the 
potatoes be over-done. (And he moves them away 
from the flame) And now, dear lady, may one say 
how-de-do? (And he offers his hand. She, cooh- 
like, wiping hers on her apron, a performance which 
John takes in with interest, grasps his warmly. It 
has cost her an effort, but she has ptdled herself to- 
gether) 



38 THE RETURN TO MUTTON [act n 

JANE 

One may, indeed, though I'm afraid I should hardly 
have recognized you. 

JOHN 

Look pretty fit, hey? 

JANE 

Magnificent. 

JOHN 

These white flannels. Like 'em? 

JANE 

Immensely. 
JOHN (to Augustin) 

Not the way a broken-hearted man should look? 
But within, — ah, within, I bleed. Cold in your 
head? {In answer to a 'fit of sneezing from Angus- 
tin) Nasty things. Try a physic. And other- 
wise? {He shakes Augustin's hand energetically) 

JANE 

Poor fellow, he has lumbago, too. 

JOHN 

That is tough. But here, I forgot all about the 
cigar. Perfecto, from the U. S. Saw your two pic- 
tures at the Exposition. Charming things. {AiJr- 
gustin gratefully takes the cigar and lights it with 
tmst relish. John's eye is meantime roving Wound 
the room. He approaches the canvas) Good. 
You've not been idle. Coming along, my boy. 
Lovely color. {Maliciously) Quite like Matisse; 
— passages of Cezanne, too. Full of reminders 
of the great ones? A trifle sweet? What do I 
know about it? Nothing. {But the barbs have 
sunk) 



ACT ii] THE RETURN TO MUTTON 39 

AUGusTiN (utterly downcast) 

Too true. Too true. What am I but a feeble 

mimic ? 
JOHN (consolingly/) 

A handful lead. The rest of us must follow. At 

least you have Jane. (Cheerftdly) Think of my 

lonely, miserable ten months. 
AUGUSTIN (sympathetic at once) 

How my heart has bled for you. 

JANE 

And what have you been doing to mend the broken 
heart.'' 

JOHN 

New scenes to find oblivion. In fact, I've been 'round 
the globe, my dears. What a lark. Oh, blessed 
freedom. Climbed the Andes, crossed the Sahara, 
made friends with the Sphinx, golf at Prestwick, mo- 
toring through Japan, — wonderful roads, — gaso- 
lene so cheap, — and as for the little Geisha girls ! 
After all, what's the use of crying over spilt matri- 
mony ? 

JANE 

After the fifth time, John, you promised me you'd 
never repeat that. However, I forgive you. It's so 
true. 

JOHN 

Particularly when one doesn't want to cry. Gussie, 
doesn't Jane look the least trifle seedy . . . charm- 
ing, but seedy? Too much mush, Gussie. You 
should vary her diet. 

JANE 

But this isn't mush. It's cabbage. 



40 THE RETURN TO MUTTON [act n 

JOHN (beside the stove) 

The law simmers down to mutton ; the arts stew up 
into cabbage. (In his rovings John has found a 
tattered old garment on a peg on the wall. It is 
still recognizable. With infinite tenderness he takes 
it down) Dear old jacket. I forgave you every^ 
thing else, Gussie. However, by-gones are by-gones. 
Keep it. It's a sacred relic. (And he hangs it back- 
reverently) And now to be with my two dearest 
friends. 

JANE 

But, my dear John, how did you manage to steal 
away ? 

JOHN 

Told Higgins I had to. Said you'd caught a sudden 
fever. 
AUGUSTiN (obviously pleased) 
So they don't know over there? 

JANE 

That was sweet of you, John. But it wasn't sudden, 
you know. It has been coming on for years. 

JOHN 

And has she got over it, Augustin.'* 

AUGUSTIN (starting to make a speech) 
The dreams of — 

JANE (her hand over his mouth) 

Have I, dear? (But somehow she fails to convince^ 
and, glancing sidewise at John, perceives this. So 
she turns upon him insouciantly) And tomorrow, I 
suppose, you continue on your travels? 

JOHN (instantly) 

Tonight. The Innsbruck express. 



ACT ii] THE RETURN TO MUTTON 41 

AUGUSTIN 

So soon? No, no, Ave cannot let you go like that. 
Art is not law. Our quarters are narrow. Such as 
the}' are, they are yours. 

JANE 

Nonsense, Augustin. He'd be horribly in the way. 

JOHN 

Besides where'd I sleep? No, Gussie, it won't do to 
put you out. Or can we arrange it, Jane? {He 
smells the cabbage again) That cabbage. My 
mouth waters. 

JANE 

You found the right pills, at last? 

JOHN 

I threw them all into the ash can. 

JANE 

You see how wise we all were. It was I that dis- 
agreed. 

JOHN 

They departed together, Gussie ; she and the pills. 
My two most constant companions. {He bangs a 
knife handle against a tin-plate) Dinner. Dinner. 
{He adds a third place at the table, by moving up a 
chair and setting down the tin-plate) Or is this 
luncheon ? Five o'clock ; a late luncheon ? An early 
dinner? Never mind. Not coming, Gussie? 

AUGUSTIN 

Cabbage ? 
JOHN {filling a plate zcith the odorous, steaming vege- 
table) Very well. {He carries it to Augustin) 
Ich dicn. Love's service. His head was in the stars. 
How could he see it was raining? Wasn't he won- 
derful, Jane? 



42 THE RETURN TO MUTTON [act n 

JANE 

And wasn't it all for the best? 

[^There is a knock at the door left. Augustin opens 
it. A grimy urchin holds a letter. Augustin opens 
it and reads. 
AUGUSTIN (tremendously excited) 
Carpacci ! Carpacci ! 

JANE 

What's the matter with Carpacci? 

AUGUSTIN 

Carpacci's downstairs. Carpacci wants to see me. 

JANE 

Why doesn't he come up? He generally does. 

JOHN 

Have Carpacci to lunch. I like the name. 
AUGUSTIN (changing his coat rapidly, no further 
thought of lumbago in his head) He writes the 
stairs are too hard for his wife. (He makes a holt 
for the door, howling over the hoy as he rushes out 
pell-mell. The boy, who had expected a somewhat 
different reward for his services, begins to bellow) 

JOHN 

Stop your howling, you young rascal. Here, take 
this. (He sets tJie boy up on his feet, gives him a 
coin and sends him on his way rejoicing) Who's 
Carpacci? 

JANE 

The President of the Academy or something. Maybe 
the jury gave Gussie an honorable mention. (Dis- 
missing Augustin) I got those stamps. Thanks, 
but they're not mine. 
JOHN (leaning against the easel) 
Now you are annoying me. 



ACT n] THE RETURN TO MUTTON 43 

JANE 

Look out for paint. Turn 'round. {He does so) 
Your shoulder. What a shame. {She gets a bottle 
of turpentine and a rag) 

JOHN 

Don't bother. You know those stamps belong to 
you. 

JANE 

Those gorgeous clothes! {And she sets to work to 
rub out the spot) 

JOHN 

I want to show you something. 

JANE 

Do stand still. 

JOHN 

It's a stamp. I want your opinion. I'm afraid it's 
a counterfeit. 

JANE 

There. It doesn't show a bit. Let me see your 
counterfeit. {He takes it from his wallet and hands 
it to her) Isn't that wonderful? 
JOHN {proudly) 

The set is completed. 

JANE 

I never believed you could do it. It's splendid. 

JOHN 

Perfect condition too. Got it in Hawaii. It's a 
great yarn. Some day I'll tell you. And now if 
you want to make me happy, take it. What good is 
it to me, since you have the rest.'' 
JANE {touched) 

Thanks, John. I can't. 



44 THE RETURN TO INIUTTON [act n 

JOHN (begging) 

Please. . . . Come now. . . . Perhaps . . . more likely 
than not — we'll never see each other again. And 
we did have wonderful times collecting that set. . . . 
(The Vespuccio baby is restive again. It yells lust- 
ily) 

JANE ^ 

Dear me, I must go to the baby. 
JOHN (bordering on collapse) 
W-What baby? 

[Jane, surprised at John's tone, looks up at him, im- 
inediaicly divines the cause of his profound disturb- 
ance, and is immensely grateful to the Vespuccios for 
their offspring. 

JANE 

Paolo. Four months old. Paolo and Francesca, 
you know. 
JOHN (aghast) 
Four — It's . . . 

[There is a timid knock at the door right. Mrs. 
Vespuccio opens the door. She is a brown-eyed 
young Madonna. Her baby is on her arm. 

MRS. VESPUCCIO 

Signora — prego. 

JANE 

lo me ne vado — si, — si, — subito. 

[Mrs. Vespuccio retires into her apartment. 

JOHN 

The — the nurse, I suppose. 

JANE 

No, idiot, — the mother. 
JOHN (in a flat tone) 
O — O — I see. 



ACT ii] THE RETURN TO MUTTON 4<5 

JANE 

I see you do. She does my washing, and helps 
with cleaning the studio — not very well, I'm afraid. 
And I take care of Paolo when she goes out. That's 
what I'm going to do now. Want to come.'' He's 
the dearest little fellow. (She leads the way toward 
the adjoining apartment, enters it while John stands 
at the door-way, watching. No longer visible, she is 
crooning over the child) Pretty bambino. (The 
child gurgles) Put down your little headie. Why, 
John, he's smiling at you. 

JOHN 

Is he.'' (And with an idiotic grimace, John swings 
his watch frantically to and fro on its chain) 

JANE 

There's a draught on him. Come in or stay out. 
But shut the door. 

\^John, closing the door behind him, joins Jane and 
the infant. The stage is empty. But for a moment 
oidy. It is filled with no physical presence, but by 
a Voice, — a hoarse, bass voice, chanting, or rather 
bawling a ribald old ballad. It is the classic ditty 
" Samuel SmalV 

THE VOICE 

" My name is Samuel Small, Samuel Small, 
My name is Samuel Small, 
And I hates you one and all 
For a gang of muckers all — " 

\^The voice has been approaching. It is very near; 
and now the door is flung open with such violence as 
to make the windows rattle. Augustin is in the door- 
way. With a roar he adds the refrain. 



46 THE RETURN TO MUTTON [act n 

AUGUSTIN 

— " Damn your eyes." News. Glorious news. 
\_One sees with astonishment that here is a new super- 
Augustin. His cheeks are flushed. His eyes shine 
with exaltation. He sees that they are gone; strid- 
ing back and forth across the room like a turkey gob- 
bler, he continues the song which is reserved for 
his great moments. 

" And this shall be my knell, parting knell, 
And this — " 

(He is arrested by the canvas which had been the sub- 
ject of John's comments. Suddenly it has a new in- 
terest for him. > He cocks his head at it, bends down, 
looks at it sidewise. Contemptuously) A trifle 
sweet.'' Cezanne.'' Matisse .f* Who are they.'' {He 
turns his back to it, spreads his legs far apart, bends 
down almost to the floor, and through the window of 
his legs, his head upside down he surveys it again) 
What color. What an arrangement. What dignity 
of posture. {He is erect again and is addressing a 
breathless audience) My dear, dear friends, words 
will not phrase the depth of my emotion. This all 
too generous — this undeserved honor to the humble 
American — here in the very home of genius — {His 
singing is resumed, speech being an insufficient vehi- 
cle for his emotions) 

" And this shall be my knell, parting knell. 

And this shall be my knell, 

Hope you go right plumb to hell, 

Hope you fry and sizzle well, 

Damn your eyes." 

l^Jane re-enters on tip-toe, John at her heels. 



ACT ii] THE RETURN TO MUTTON 47 

JANE 

Ssh! Ssh! Ssh! Do be still. Paolo's asleep. 

AUGUSTIN 

Wake him. Tell him the glorious news. The gold 
medal of honor. Wake them all — and the prize of 
a thousand — 

JANE 

What? Isn't that splendid, splendid? But please 
do make just a little less noise. The gold medal. 
Why, Gussie. 

JOHN 

We'll have a parade in Kansas City when I get back. 

AUGUSTIN 

Cezanne, hey? Trifle sweet? They consider it the 
most daring and original canvas of a decade. A 
decade. I only repeat what Mrs. Carpacci said. 
This evening at six Carpacci gives a banquet to the 
prize winners. 

JOHN 

And are you to make a speech? 

AUGUSTIN 

They expect it. I am the guest of honor. 

JOHN 

Make it short, Gussie. 

JANE 

What dress shall I wear, Augustin? 
\_Augusti7i's jam drops. 

JOHN 

Jane, Jane, a little more tact, please. 

AUGUSTIN 

Rose of the world, you see — 

JANE 

What am I to see? 



48 THE RETURN TO MUTTON [act ii 

JOHN 

I must say you are dense. Augustin sees ; Mrs. 
Carpacci sees. I see. You are not invited, Jane. 
This is the symposium of genius. Did I ever take 
you to the Bar Association dinners? You don't 
seem to realize what this means. Gussie is an inter- 
national figure. His photograph will be in the Sun- 
day supplements. {To Augustin) You old rascal! 

AUGUSTIN 

An imitator, hey? (He pounds John on the back 
and bursts once more into song) 

" Oh, the parson, he did come, he did come." 

JANE (enjoining silence) 
Please, please ! 

AUGUSTIN (continuing) 

" Oh, the parson, he did come." 

JANE (irritated) 

You know Paolo is teething. Do be still. 

AUGUSTIN (infuriated) 

Paolo, Paolo, Paolo, Paolo ! And what of Augus- 
tin? 

JOHN (patching it up) 

You'd better be running along to your banquet. 
Come along, Jane ; we'll ride down the Grand Canal 
and get a bit of dinner. My train doesn't leave until 
nine. What do you say? I'll return her safely, 
Gussie — in a month or so. 

\_Augusti'n gives a quick, questionirig look toward 
John. A sudden, terrible change comes over him. 

AUGUSTIN (with slow and tragic emphasis) 

Stop, listen to me. This — (he turns to Jane) 
This is life's crucial moment. 



ACT n] THE RETURN TO MUTTON 49 

JOHN 

What? Again? Horrors! 

AUGUSTIN 

We stand — 

JOHN 

Don't be frightened, Gussie. Pepita in Madrid, 
Bridget in Londonderry, dark-eyed Rachel in the 
Orient, — you don't think I'd give up all that? You 
shall have her back safe, sound and undamaged, all 
in the original package, at eight forty-five. 

JANE 

I am beginning to be a bit afraid of these crucial 

moments myself. But, Gussie, what about a high 

hat? 

\_ Angus tin is overwhelmed. 

JANE 

I have it. Trafford. You could borrow his. I'd 
run right over for it if I were you. 
\_Augustin seizes his hat and rushes to the door. 
Door-knob in hand, he stops. 

AUGUSTIN 

Rose of the world ! Fairest of — 

JOHN 

Never mind. We catch the drift. You are a noble 
fellow. And, by Jove, you know that picture in my 
sitting room will be worth enough now to pay my en- 
tiro trip. (And he slams the door on Angus tin) The 
lapse ; the relapse. Sorry, old girl, but it's only too 
plain. He's chucked you. 

JANE 

And made a dashing exit, too. 

JOHN 

He improves. 



50 THE RETURN TO MUTTON [act n 

JANE 

Gussie's really a dear boy. 
JOHN {generously) 

He is. He is. {Solicitously) But look here, it 
does make rather a hash of things for you. 

JANE 

Does it? I've decided to accept that stamp, John. 
Richardson has a standing offer of two thousand 
pounds for the set, you know. I shall climb the An- 
des. I shall make friends with the Sphinx. Blessed 
freedom. 

JOHN 

But about dinner. I can't stomach another one of 
those continental table d'hotes. 

JANE 

I know such a cosy little place. 

JOHN 

Get your bonnet. 

[^She does so. It has been grozeing a little dark. 
John pulls up the latticed blinds, so that she may 
have light enough to put on her hat; and Venice in 
the magic of early dusk lies before them. Its vistas, 
the green of the sky rising into ultra-marine above, 
melting into rose below, the first star over the cam- 
panile of San Giorgio, look in upon them. A gon- 
dolier s song floats faintly up. They stand looking 
out. 

Rather decent, isn't it? 

\^Jane^s veil becomes tangled. John is quick to the 
rescue with skilful fingers, born of long practice. 
Their faces are very near together as they stand at 
the window, black silhouettes agai/nst the deepening 
sky. 



ACT n] THE RETURN TO MUTTON 51 

And when do you leave Venice? 

JANE 

Whenever you do. 

JOHN 

Whenever I do? You expect me to take you back, 
Madam ? 

JANE 

Heaven preserve me. I shall take the train that goes 
in the opposite direction. At dinner you shall tell 
me all the interesting places. 

JOHN 

What's this? (His hand has dropped on a little 
book lying on the window sill. She snatches for it. 
There is a brief scuffle. John bends his eyes close to 
it in the gathering dusk. There is a thrill in his 
voice despite himself) My sonnets ! Those miser- 
able sonnets? Take the wretched things. (But it 
appears she no longer wants them) Very well. 
They shall go where they deserve. (He lifts his 
arm, preparing to fling them out of the wimdow. She 
stays him) 

JANE 

No, Jack. They'd float. Somebody might pick 
them up — and read them. That would be too dread- 
ful. Give them to me. (Paolo cries softly in his 
sleep) The little honey. Let's go out that way. 
We'll tuck him in. Come along. (At the Vespuccio 
door) Be terribly quiet. (By now it is quite dark. 
John, following her, stumbles over a chair) Clumsy. 
Do be careful. 

JOHN 

But I can't see. 



52 THE RETURN TO MUTTON [act n 

JANE 

Give me your hand, then. Where is it? 

JOHN 

Can't you see it? {They join hands) This cosy 
little place of yours. Just what sort of a place is it? 

JANE 

A jolly, old, fat Englishman runs it. 

JOHN 

English? By Jove! A baked potato, a leg of mut- 
ton. 

JANE 

The very thing. 

JOHN 

A change from cabbage. . . . INIutton. . . . And 
capers. Don't forget the capers, old lady. It's a 
long time since we've had capers together. 
[^And very cautiously they tip-toe out together, shut- 
ting the Vespuccio door silently behind them. In a 
moment a light sifts into the room from the glass 
transom above the Vespuccio door. And now Au- 
gustin re-enters. The tall hat is on his head. It is 
very noble, but a trifle too large for him, so that it is 
resting on his ears. He sees the light over the tran- 
som. He climbs on a chair and looks through for 
a moment. He climbs down. Whatever it is that 
he has seen, he is well satisfied. The light next door 
goes out. The room> is vn darkness. Augustvn 
strikes a match and lights a lamp. He takes a deep 
breath or two as a man who has been under water. 
He stretches his arms out mightily. From below 
Jane calls out. 

JANE 

Gondolier ! Gondolier ! 



ACT ii] THE RETURN TO MUTTON 53 

[Augustin now moves the pier glass to the front of 
the room, removes the hat, and lamp in hand, brushes 
his hair tcith great precision into a careful disorder. 
Satisfied, he resumes the hat, first stuffing a bit of 
newspaper under its band. Then lie arrays himself 
in a very solemn long frock coat, taking it from a 
hook on tlie wall. He is almost ready, — not quite. 
He goes to the sink and scrubs his hands sketchily 
with soap and water, cleans his nails with a pocket- 
knife, polishes them with a chamois buffer and (shall 
it be written dormi?) puts a little carmine paste on 
them. Then he shakes a drop of Cologne on his 
handkerchief. He makes a final inspection before 
the mirror; he passes muster; he puts down the lamp. 
He selects a walking stick standing near the stove. 
He sniffs froxvningly at the kettle of cabbage. He 
lays the stick down, throws wide open one of the 
casement windows, goes to the stove, lifts from, it the 
kettle, takes it to the window, and leaning over, casts 
it into the canal. One hears the splash far below. 
He turns the lamp low, takes the stick once more, 
tilts his hat awry, bows deeply before the self- 
portrait, and then, tzcirling his cane as if it were a 
drum major's baton, he strides from the room, sing- 
ing at top-voice as he goes. The words of the song 
are these: 

" For my name is — " 
\^He slams the door. The stars look in on a deserted 
room. From below one hears the ripple of the water 
as the gondola stops, and faintly one hears John and 
Jane laughing together. 



